


Make You Feel My Love

by theoneinquisitor



Series: celebration fills [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Just some married ice princess for you, Pregnancy, literally just fluff, zero plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 16:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18528952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: God, Roan just really, really loves his wife. And if she needs help shaving her legs, then he'll help her shave her legs.





	Make You Feel My Love

**Author's Note:**

> For leahrose88 on tumblr.
> 
> Title comes from the Bob Dylan song. Please enjoy some ridiculous ice princess fluff.

“I can’t believe you did this to me.” 

“Pretty sure this was a consensual, two person decision, babe.”

Clarke’s latest pregnancy trend has been to stand in front of the mirror and critically examine every inch of herself.  Her stomach has swollen to the size of a basketball, which Roan finds to be pretty fucking hot, but she seems to think it’s the  _ worst _ and she spends far too much time talking about it. He hates that she sees herself that way mostly because none of it is even remotely accurate. On the bright side, it gives him every excuse to tell (and show) her just how beautiful she is. 

He comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her so that his hands can rest on the swollen flesh. 

“I think you look great,” he tells her, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. 

“Yeah, well, I feel like a weeble wobble. ” Clarke huffs, leaning back into his touch. “I can’t even see my toes anymore.” 

“They’re still there if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Hardy har.” He brushes the hair from her neck and kisses her shoulder, letting his lips form a path up the column of her neck. He smirks into her skin when she lets out a soft whimper, turning to give him better access

“You have no idea how beautiful you are like this,” he nips at the spot behind her ear, his hand beginning to shift up her stomach towards her chest. “You’re glowing, baby.” 

“Yeah?” she turns so her mouth is inches away from his own. He leans in, ready to plant her ass firmly on the counter and demonstrate, but the shrill ring of his work phone breaks the spell just as his lips brush hers. 

“Jesus.” he groans.

She pats his shoulder sympathetically, sliding from his embrace easily.  “Go ahead. I was going to start getting ready, anyway. We have to be at the church by six.” 

She shoves him gently from the bathroom and shuts the door until there’s only a small crack -- she really likes drafts for some reason. He grabs his phone from the nightstand,  _ Echo Trader  _ blinking at him from the screen, and doesn’t bother containing the annoyance in his voice when he answers. 

“What?”

“Sorry to bother you, I know you’re supposed to be off today.” 

“Then why are you bothering me?” 

“We sat down with the prosecutor to run offers, thought you might want to hear what they’re offering for the Mbege case.”

One day, that’s all Roan asked for. Just one. 

“Fine,” he sighs, “Let’s hear it.”

Limited time off comes with the territory of being an attorney, they tell you that in law school. They build up it up to be worthwhile, like, “Hey, you’ll rarely have time off, but the  _ money. _ ” Except, they tend to exclude Public Defense Attorney’s from that category because not only are vacation days essentially impossible to take -- not for lack of trying, he can stay home from the office four days a week if he wants, but people will still blow his phone up, clients, prosecutors, fellow attorneys -- but the money is terrible, all things considered. 

Damn him for believing in basic human rights.

He should have gone the civil route where he could deal with the one percent’s divorces (there’s a lot of them, in case you’re wondering, and most of the time they’ll pay extra to expedite the process. It’s a lucrative business.) or, better yet, fucking prenups. That’s the big money.  

“You can tell the prosecutor to shove that offer up her ass,” he hisses into the phone, “We aren’t taking anything less than a five for five with no stand, and they can fuck themselves for that PFO first."

He’s digging into his closet, trying to find the blue button up his wife bought him for his 30th birthday. They have a wedding tonight, two of her friends from college who, for some ungodly reason, decided to get married on a fucking Friday. While it gave him an excuse to take a day off, or rather, work from home, he’s still not happy about it. But he promised Clarke he would go, even if it meant sharing a table with her Mom and step-dad (fun fact: she’s married to Judge Kane and it makes court really fucking awkward, sometimes). 

“You know Lexa isn’t going to back down on the PFO,” Echo tells him bitterly, “You remember how they fucked with Blake’s client a couple weeks ago. Would have been probated if not for her stupid persistent offender lecture. Wish Judge Kane would grow a pair and tell her to shut the fuck up…” 

He finds the button up sandwiched between his suit jackets. He makes a mental note to go through them this weekend because damn, does he really need  _ that  _ many blazers? No. The answer is no. 

“He’ll never do that, he wants to make sure he gets reelected. His lips must stay chapped from the amount of ass he kisses.”  Thank God Clarke’s in the shower and can’t hear him talking about her step-father. It’s often a point of contention between them, mostly because anytime he comes home with a story about Judge Kane, it’s not a good one and Clarke decides to take it upon herself to  _ call him  _ and bitch him out for whatever decision she feels is unjust. Which, first of all, is hot as hell, but secondly, creates a lot of issues within the attorney-sphere because the prosecutors feel like Roan is ‘favored’. 

He’s not, at least, not really. Judge Kane hated him when they first met years ago. He was not happy about his relationship with Clarke,  though, he imagines that has something to do with the fact that he was (is) quite unconventional. Long hair, facial scar, and not exactly what one could define as ‘clean cut’. Whatever, he’s a fucking lawyer, it shouldn’t matter that much. But when he and Clarke got married a couple years ago, it seems Judge decided it was time to give him a chance and they’ve managed to be cordial ever since. 

“I’ll let Lexa know you want to schedule a sit down with her for next week before circuit court. I told her today we couldn’t accept any offers on your behalf but you know how she is--”

“Motherfucker!” the sound of Clarke’s screech has his instincts kicking in immediately. He tells Echo he’ll call her back, pressing the end button before he even finishes the sentence, and bursts into the bathroom like a bat out of hell. He nearly rips the shower curtain off the rail when he shoves it back. 

“Are you okay?!” 

By the time his eyes have done a once, twice over, his brain is catching up. Appearance-wise, she’s fine. Still standing upright, no visible blood, and glaring at him in the way she only does when he’s being  _ ridiculous.  _ He’s a tad overprotective, admittedly, but this is their first child and he’s done a lot research on the internet about it all. Which, unfortunately, led to a lot of horror stories about miscarriages and the dangers of pregnancy, and okay, fine, he’s a bit ridiculous. He loves his wife and his unborn kid, so sue him. 

“I can’t fucking shave my legs!” she whines, and it’s then he finally understands the scene before him. One leg is covered in a thin sheen of shaving cream, perched on the ledge of the shower. There’s another, small blotch of shaving cream on the swell of her stomach, and once again he finds himself having to bite back laughter. She must notice because she slaps his chest, leaving a wet handprint on his t-shirt. “It’s not funny!” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says innocently, “You just look so cute…”

“This isn’t cute! It’s a disaster! My leg hair is thick enough to pass for socks!” 

She’s never really cared about leg hair before, that he can remember. It’s mostly blonde and on more than one occasion she’s stated that shaving regularly was a ridiculous gendered beauty notion and  _ fuck the patriarchy for that _ . But she’s seven months pregnant, frustrated, and damn it, if she wants her legs shaved, then that’s what she’ll get.

“Let me help,” he sticks his hand in the shower to grab the razor from her fingers. 

“You're going to shave my legs for me?” she laughs incredulously. 

“Sure, how hard can it be?”

He has her finish up in the shower, handing her the robe hanging from the back of the door to wrap up in. She sits on the toilet, propping her foot up on the tub so he can rub the shaving cream from her mid thigh to her ankle. In any other context, this might be a sensual, intimate moment between him and his wife. But all he can think about is not cutting her leg open with the razor.  He reminds himself that the hair on her legs is  _ not  _ the same as the hair on his face, to keep his touch light and smooth. Sucking his lip between his teeth, he concentrates, scraping every last bit of shaving cream off with precision and ease. 

“All done,” he says, with a final swipe of the razor. He rinses it in the tub before laying back on the ledge and grabbing the towel from the hook. He pats her legs dry, laying a kiss on her knee when he’s finished. She giggles quietly.  God, he loves that giggle. 

“Who knew you had such a soft touch?”

His knees crack as he stands. “Pretty sure you figured that out the first night we met.” 

While there’s a lot of things to love about his wife, one of his favorite things is her unapologetic, blunt approach to life. They met at an attorney conference almost five years ago, well, at the bar in the hotel where the attorney conference was being held. She was there to present a class on mitigation, as part of her social work partnership with public defenders, and he was there to learn. As she likes to tell it, he had given her  _ the eyes  _ the entirety of her presentation that afternoon, which is why two drinks in she was already asking him back to her room. The rest of their story is boring, in comparison. They dated, he fell in love with her, like, instantly, and here they are married with a kid on the way. 

He never pictured himself to be the white picket fence guy but damn, he’d trade in his Camry for a Minivan in a heartbeat if that’s what Clarke wanted. 

“You’re right,” she says, “That’s why I married you.” 

He leans down to press his lips to press his lips to her stomach. “You hear that, babygirl? You’re mom married me for the orgasms--”

“Oh my God, stop it!” she flicks him on the forehead, “Our kid does not need to hear about that, you’re gonna traumatize them before they come out!” 

“Can’t wait to tell the story of her conception,” he smiles brightly. He pulls of the shirt, still wet from her earlier wet smack to the chest, and tosses it into the hamper. Her hands wrap around his torso from behind, tracing the fine lines of his abdomen. He smirks as he feels her lips press into his shoulder. Pregnancy hormones are fantastic. 

“We don’t know if it’s a girl, stop being stubborn.” 

“It’s a girl.” He’s like, 99 percent sure. 

“I hate you.” 

“No you don’t.”

She pushes away from him with a sigh. “No, I don’t. But I tell you what, I’ll let you make it up to me--”

“Make what up to you?”

“Being a stubborn jackass,” he can hear the ‘duh’ in her voice.  He turns to face her, pulling her to his chest and kissing her forehead. 

“Oh right, of course.”  

“You can paint my toes for me.” 

He scoffs. “Absolutely not.” 

She picks a bright pink. He makes her sit on the couch so he can use the ottoman for leverage, bringing her the donut so she can get comfortable. He wishes he could say this is the first time he’s done something like this, but ever since the pregnancy, he’s become well-versed in feminine vanity. He now knows how to braid in three different ways, use flat irons and curling irons, paint fingers and toes, and as of today, shave legs. He’s almost certain she’s able to do half those things herself, still, but asks him solely because she likes being taken care of. And he’s okay with that because he likes taking care of her. 

“So what are the odds this wedding doesn’t last a million hours?” he asks, concentrating on her pinky toe. It’s always the hardest to paint and he still struggles to keep the polish within the confines of the nail. 

“It’ll be an hour, tops.” 

“God, I haven’t sat through a catholic mass in years. Pretty sure it was high school, actually.” 

“Well, I promise to reward you for your sacrifice later if you play nice with Marcus and dance with me once or twice.” 

“Define ‘play nice’.” He dips the brush into the bottle and swirls it near the top to get rid of the access paint. 

“Don’t talk about work,” she responds, “Please.” 

“Make the dances slow dance and you have a deal.”

“Deal.” 

He’s finishing up the last toe, her big one, when he feels her hand run through his hair. He looks up, brush still clutched between two fingers, to see her eyes watering. 

“Babe?” he asks, putting the brush away and joining her on the couch. He lifts and arm and she crawls into his chest, burrowing her face into his neck with a light sniffle. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just…” she nudges his chin with her nose, “Really love you.”

The pregnancy hormones. 

He leans down to kiss her, smiling against her lips. “I love you, too.” And he knows, as he’s always known, that it’ll be until the end of his life. 

“Will you do my fingernails now?” 

“Of course.”

He'd do anything for her and he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang on [tumblr](https://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com)


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